


run boy run ( they're trying to catch you )

by ashesrose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alive Tony Stark, Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/M, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Tony Stark Has A Heart, follows peter after the ffh mid credits scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-18 17:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesrose/pseuds/ashesrose
Summary: Another buzz, the news app.SPIDER-MAN EXPOSED: A TEENAGE CRIMINALHe grits his teeth, he can’t do this. Without thinking, he skips through all his missed calls, and starts dialing instead. His fingers shake more with each number he presses, but he doesn’t know what else to do. It rings, over and over again, and Peter puts the phone to his ear, even though he knows no one is going to pick up.It goes to voicemail.“Tony?”---After Peter Parker's identity is exposed to the world
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 268
Collections: Silver and Gold, Spider-Man Public Identity Reveal





	1. long and awful lonely fall down from this pedestal

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fic in Awhile, but i haven't been able to get this idea out of my head, and i've always wanted to write a full multichapter fic, soooooo here it is! i'm writing this as i go, so the tags might change, and i have a Lot of plans for this. also, it's endgame divergent :)

_“Spider-Man’s name is Peter Parker!”_

There’s a cold chill that runs down Peter’s spine, one that spreads to every inch of his body, and a sudden burst of fear that makes his stomach lurch. His hands fly to his head, as if it’s about to burst with the overload of information that floods through his brain. From seeing Beck’s face, after reassuring himself over and over that he _never_ had to see it again. From each second of the newscast that causes the crescendo of noise in his head, swelling up until the kid barely stops himself from reaching a breaking point. He can’t even hear his own voice when he speaks (“What the fuck?!”-- yeah, definitely an appropriate reaction), the world around him muffled as an incessant ringing fills his ears. _No, no, this can’t be happening, this isn’t happening. It’s not real, it’s another nightmare, like May told him, breathe._

It hasn’t even been a week since he arrived home. Almost, though, six days. For those six days, he was _okay_ . The betrayal stung, his injuries ached for longer than usual, and Beck had provided him with enough nightmare fuel for a _lifetime_ (as if Peter didn’t already have enough of that in the first place), but...his friends were okay, he got to see his aunt, he was starting to feel...better. 

Happy. 

All of that comes crashing down right before his eyes. 

He can’t hear what the people below him are saying, not really. He’s too caught up in his own head, too afraid to look behind himself and see the looks on their faces-- and he’s **_terrified_ ** of how MJ has to be looking at him right now. She’s right there below him, she saw the whole thing, and it’s so _unfair_ . Peter hasn’t even processed it, even though the few seconds that pass are _excruciatingly_ long. He’s stuck perched on the pole, unable to move or even think clearly. That is, until the ringing quiets down enough for him to realize the _chaos_ growing underneath him.

Everyone stares. He still doesn’t turn around, but people who saw the broadcast, others looking up in shock from notifications on their phones, their eyes all drift towards Peter, and he’s _frozen_ . He’s surrounded by confused chatter, shock, but what really shakes him is the moment someone yells out the word _criminal_. 

It’s as if his instincts flare up just like that, clicking into place and suddenly **_blaring_ ** in his head, and Peter _darts_ off the pole. A familiar thwip rings through his ears as the wind rushes past him, and before he can even think about what he’s doing, he’s swinging away. He relies on intuition to keep himself going, his thoughts too much of a mess already. Each swing feels heavier and heavier, but the urge to get _away_ surpasses everything else. He has to go, find somewhere where nobody can see him. _He needs to think, he needs to calm down, he needs to breathe_ , but every shot of webbing steals more and more air from his lungs until he feels like he’s about to collapse. 

Somehow, he’s got no idea how, he manages to hold on for a little while longer, finally reaching the most secluded area he can find in the bustling city (he could probably find better, but this is the best he can do right now). He had to get away from the crowds, get away from the noise, and it’s lead him to a rooftop where hopefully, nobody will find him for awhile. He lets go of the synthetic material, and _stumbles_ onto the roof, nearly toppling over before he regains his balance, and sucks in a quick breath. His heart hammers in his chest, and his legs feel like jelly-- _everyone knows who he is_. 

It’s too much to process, too much to take in all at once. His hands are shaking-- he feels like he’s suffocating, and quickly lifts a hand to pull off the mask, letting it drop beside his feet. His face is _pale_ , hair sticking up at different angles, and beads of sweat cling to his forehead (making his hair a lot curlier than when he fixed it up for his date with MJ-- shit, _MJ_ , where is she right now? What is she thinking?). Peter knows he needs to _think_ right now. He needs to figure out his game plan, where he’s going to go, what he’s going to do about his aunt and his friends and everyone that’s ever been close to him. He has to come up with some kind of idea that’ll get him out of this, but every ragged breath feels like a million shards of glass are lodged in his lungs, and he can’t stop _panicking_. 

_“Spider-Man attacked me for some reason. He has an army of weaponized drones, Stark technology.”_

Peter starts pacing back and forth. 

_“He’s saying he’s the only one who’s gonna be the new Iron Man, no one else.”_

A hand tangles through his hair, tugging at the strands. 

_“That’s the most disappointing part. You’re a good person, Peter. Such a weakness. Stark was right, you do deserve them.”_

A strangled noise escapes his throat in sync with the gunshot in his head. 

Why is he so _stupid?!_ Why didn’t he _consider_ this?! Of course Beck used his tech to record a video on the bridge, of course he found some way to get back at Peter even when he’s _dead_ . Because he’s **_Beck_ ** . Peter should have gone through EDITH’s files, or even just _asked_ what Beck did with her. He doesn’t know who might have released the video, or how they even had access to it, but that’s _another_ thing he should have thought about-- _Beck can’t have been working alone_ . He quickly goes through every moment on that bridge in his head, trying to figure out when Beck even managed to do that, and the second he gets to the moment before Beck died...and he feels _sick_ to his stomach. 

_“You’ll see, Peter. People need to believe. And nowadays, they’ll believe anything.”_

He didn’t realize...Peter didn’t realize when Beck’s plan was _right in front of him_ . He feels dizzy, overwhelmed, disoriented, he just wants to go home. He wants to show up in his apartment like nothing happened and collapse right onto the couch, talk to May and watch a garbage movie while eating popcorn and greasy pizza, but he _can’t_ . He won’t risk showing up at his apartment, not when it could be _swarmed_ by police any moment now. A part of him wants to think the public won’t believe it...that they’ll realize Beck was a liar, but he’s not naive; he _knows_ the slim chance of that. People latched onto Mysterio quick, and the “evidence” is all there. _Why did he have to say execute?_

What about May? What is she going to do? He doesn’t want people swarming her, asking her constant questions about him, she doesn’t _deserve_ that. She’s already dealt with enough-- _Ben, her nephew turning out to be a teenage superhero...it’s always his fault._ How about Ned? And MJ? Will _they_ believe it? They won’t...they’re his friends, and they were _there_ when Mysterio put on his show, why would they think Peter tried to kill everyone? _But there’s a chance_ , and he can’t get that _if_ out of his head. 

He’s still pacing, walking back and forth, back and forth, but his breathing doesn’t calm down, and he’s _far_ from rational thought. The next logical step is to _hide_ , right? The world knows who he is, and as far as he knows, the world thinks he’s a **criminal** . Until that’s solved, he can’t risk it-- Happy can help him with that, right? He’s _got_ to have some place Peter can go where nobody can find him, a place where his aunt and maybe even his friends can come along too, where they’ll be _safe_ from everything. But...that’s not guaranteed. Peter hasn’t told anyone the details about what happened in Berlin... _except_ for Happy (and even that’s a stretch, since most of what he said before he got stitched up was practically incomprehensible). Happy saw him right after the illusions, right after the train, _he’ll believe Peter_ . But doubt seeps through any efforts to reassure himself, and he starts to rethink. Happy could believe the video too, or he might not look for Peter, might not know a place where they can stay-- Peter _can’t_ rely on anyone else. 

Another deep breath, and he can’t _take_ this anymore. He moves to sit down, legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop as he stares at the cityscape before him. Somewhere in these streets, he was a fourteen year old kid who watched his uncle’s body hit the ground. Somewhere after that, he promised himself he wouldn’t let anyone get hurt again if he could do something about it, because then it would be on him. And now, his **life** is ripped away from him, just like that. He doesn’t _understand--_ he knows he’s made mistakes, ones he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling guilty for, but he knows he _didn’t_ deserve this. He’s just been trying to do good, the best a ~~scared little~~ kid could do. 

Hands still trembling, he pulls his phone out (installing a compartment for it in his suit? _Definitely_ a good idea). Amidst his panic, he hadn’t noticed the constant _buzzing_ of the notifications that spam his screen. They flood in from just about every social media Peter has (both the Peter Parker _and_ Spider-Man ones), and his grip against the device is _tight_ , knuckles turning pale white-- he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s holding onto it until a corner of the screen _shatters_ , and tiny pieces of glass shower over his skin. He relaxes his hand, but doesn’t do much besides that, too _distracted_ . _38 missed calls_ . He can’t bring himself to look at who they’re from (May? Ned? MJ? Happy? Pepper? _Anyone_ that knows him?), knowing it’ll only make the knot in his stomach worse. He scrolls past message after message, catches glances of concerned texts, notifications from Instagram and Twitter and even _YouTube_ . He doesn’t want to look at them, doesn’t want to know what everyone is saying, but they’re all _right in front of him_ , pouring in with each second that passes, and it’s hard to avoid reading some. 

_Bad idea_. 

Some are confused, questioning how a _kid_ like him could be Spider-Man...how he could’ve murdered Mysterio. Some are supportive, but those are quickly overshadowed by the influx of _hatred_ that Peter can’t help but focus on. 

It _stings,_ seeing just how many people already believe the lie spreading to every inch of the world— _hasn’t he always tried to be a hero?_ He was never perfect...but now he knows he didn’t _have_ to be, was he **still** not good enough? 

Another buzz, the news app. 

_SPIDER-MAN EXPOSED: A TEENAGE CRIMINAL_

He grits his teeth, he can’t _do_ this. Without thinking, he skips through all his missed calls, and starts dialing instead. His fingers shake more with each number he presses, but he doesn’t know what _else_ to do. It rings, over and over again, and Peter puts the phone to his ear, even though he knows no one is going to pick up. 

It goes to voicemail. 

_“Tony?”_

Peter’s voice cracks the moment he says it, and this would be _embarrassing_ if not for the fact that his mentor won’t ever listen to his message. “I don’t...I don’t know what to _do._ And I know calling you isn’t gonna do anything ‘cause you’re not gonna pick up, but…” 

_“Kid, next time you get hurt, you call me.” Tony’s voice is stern, a brow raised— his concern is less obvious, but it’s worry for Peter that fuels his every word._

_“My arm’s not even that bad!”_

_“Yeah, right, it just bent in a direction that no human limb should be able to go.”_

_“It’ll heal in a day, I’ll be fine.”_

_“I mean it. You can’t keep getting yourself hurt and not doing anything about it when there’s a full medical staff right here, that’s way too far into the heroic bullshit, even for you.”_

_Peter laughs. “Yeah— yeah, okay. I— ...I’ll call you next time there’s an emergency.” There’s a pause, before the corner of his lips twitches upwards. “Only for the superhero painkillers though. Those things are like_ **_magic_ ** _.”_

_There’s an exhale from Tony, which seems like half-sigh and half-laughter. “Good, I swear you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day, kid.”_

Peter’s heart is heavy in his chest, and his grip around the phone tightens. “It’s-- um...it’s an emergency. I dunno how you did it, telling everybody your identity, but I...I could _really_ use some advice right now.” A hand runs through his hair-- _he shouldn’t be doing this._ “I thought it was over. I thought-- ...I thought he was _gone_ and he couldn’t hurt me anymore, and...and I was feeling _better_ . I was on a date with MJ, she-- um, turns out she likes me back, she kissed me...on the bridge in London, that’s-- ...probably _ruined_ now. I can’t see her-- or-- or Ned, or May, I can’t just _call_ them, I don’t...I don’t know how to keep them safe and this is gonna put them in so much danger and if I’m with them it’ll just be _worse_ -” 

He catches a quick breath, blinking back the sudden tears brimming in his eyes. His lungs feel as if they’re going to collapse in on themselves. “I miss you...I don’t-- I don’t wanna be the next Iron Man...not like I-- um, I _could_ , but everyone was asking me about it all the time and I felt like I _had_ to but...Happy said you weren’t perfect either...I bet you could fix _this_ , though.” He pauses, biting the inside of his cheek-- he knows he’s just talking to _himself_ , but it’s getting harder and harder to hold everything back before it all spills out to a call that couldn’t have been answered. “I just...I saw _his_ face and-- and it felt like I couldn’t breathe, like he was _back_ and-- and what if he is? What if he never actually d-...what if he faked it, and-- and did this ‘cause he knew it’d screw me over.” 

_For the next Tony Stark, I trust you_. 

He feels even sicker. 

“I’m sorry-- I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to trust him, I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have given him EDITH and if I didn’t then none of this would even be _happening_ right now and I could-- I could go home and my aunt and my friends could be safe, and you-- um...you’d probably be really _disappointed_ , I was really **stupid-** ” It had been every single word from Beck that coerced Peter into the decision-- something to familiar to what’s been _absent_ in his life, someone to latch onto, someone to trust. Someone who asked what _he_ wanted and had more experience and placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder like Peter _meant something_ . Someone who defended him and took every chance he could to dig further into him without Peter even _realizing--_ in a way, Beck only confirmed what Peter already believed. That he was too irresponsible to keep the glasses, to be a _hero_ \-- not strong enough, not **good enough**. 

And all it took was one look at his face again to start falling down that spiral. 

“I-- I wanna go home-” He’s gasping for air now, the pace of his breathing growing more and more rapid again, and the world blurring in front of him-- his tears are hot, and with a blink, they start to burn tracks down his pale cheeks. “But I don’t-- I don’t think I can again and-- and-- they know-- they all _know_ who I am, and sometimes I-- I hear Beck in my head and I can’t tell what’s real, and-” Hiccups and quiet sobs interrupt his speech. “They’re all gonna hate me...the-- the whole city, nothing’s ever gonna be the same, he-- he said it, he said people’ll believe in anything, of course it’s just gotta be _ruined_ the second things start being good again _..._ I don’t get it...I keep-- I keep trying to be good and it just-- ...it never _stops_ and I can’t stop **_crying-_ **”

He lifts his free hand to quickly wipe his eyes, shuddering after another sharp intake of breath. _This is really, really pathetic_ . “Sorry...I-- _why am I even apologizing?_ \-- I just needed to...I don’t know...I wish you were still here.” 

He hangs up the call. 

Despite the continued buzzing, Peter tosses his phone on the ground next to him, and tries his best to take deep breaths. _He doesn’t know why he thought that would help_ . He figured getting it all out, even if he wasn’t really talking to anyone, might make it easier to _think_ , but he just feels even worse than before. Anxiety pools in his stomach as he pictures what Tony might think of him right now, the fear in May’s eyes when she realizes what happened, the look on Ned’s face, MJ seeing the whole thing _right there_. And now he’s alone, sat on a rooftop, eyes rimmed red and cheeks puffy as he tries to shake off the overload of emotion that floods through him. 

_Weak_. 

He gasps again-- it sounded like...Beck, here, taunting him-- it’s in his head, Peter _knows_ it’s in his head. This isn’t the first time it’s happened since the trip, but it feels so _real_ . Notifications keep his phone constantly vibrating, the noise drilling through his head at an unnaturally shrill pitch. It’s too bright out, his thoughts are so _loud_ , **everything** is loud, and he quickly recognizes what’s going on. _Turns out when all his senses are amplified by eleven, they tend to kick right into overdrive._

His hands are shaking again, his heartbeat accelerating along with the buzz of hateful comments or concerned texts or maybe it’s _Beck_ , somehow gloating, somehow _everywhere--_ I DON’T THINK YOU KNOW WHAT’S REAL PETER. He _shoots_ to his feet, taking a few backwards steps, and whipping his head back and forth. When he blinks, he swears he sees green smoke billowing towards him. 

“ _You’re_ not real-” He chokes out, shaking his head. “This isn’t-- this isn’t happening-” 

_Oh, but isn’t it? Just awhile ago, you thought I was GONE. But here I am, and now the WHOLE WORLD knows the truth. MYSTERIO is the truth_. 

_Blink. Spherical helmet. Blink. Another notification. Blink. Peter is toppled by a million doubles of himself. Blink. His phone vibrates. Blink. He’s in a graveyard. Blink. He doesn’t know what’s real. Blink. Tony’s corpse bounds towards him. Blink. The rush of a bullet train. Blink. His phone_ **_keeps_ ** _buzzing_.

He has to rely on his senses, but they’re too _overloaded_ for him to make sense of anything, and all he’s left with is the _panic_ and _hypervigilance_ and Beck’s words repeating through his mind. He glances towards his phone again, and his mouth falls open. 

_Incoming call from Mr. Stark…_

For a moment, there’s a burst of hope, all the chaos in Peter’s head coming to an abrupt pause, but it’s quickly crushed the moment he remembers how fast his heart is pounding, and the shrill ringing in his ears, and how it’s _not real_ . Beck’s voice isn’t real, Tony is **dead** . _He’s seeing things, it’s just another way for Beck to torment him beyond the grave_. 

And Peter **_refuses_ ** to deal with it anymore. 

A cesspool of anger, fear, and grief bubbles up inside him, and in a sudden, cathartic movement, he grabs the phone, and _smashes_ it to the ground, broken pieces shattering against the rooftop. 

Slowly, the noise around him grows quiet. He can’t hear Beck anymore. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_. He repeats it over and over in his head like a mantra, until he can finally take a steady breath again. He knows what he has to do now. 

**He has to hide. Alone**. 

\---

_“Come on out, Pete. You can’t hide in there the whole time!” Ben’s warm voice sounds from outside the tent, his chuckle filling the air as Peter finally makes his way out._

_The kid, about eight years old, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and takes a seat next to his uncle, craning his neck to gaze up in between the trees. “Wow.”_

_“You like it?”_

_“I love it! We never see stars like this in the city! It’s so cool.”_

_“Thought you would.” Ben’s smile is infectious, home, and he quickly ruffles Peter’s hair. “Since you love space and all.”_

_They sit there for awhile, staring at the stars as Peter rambles on and on about whatever comes to mind, hands moving wildly— the kid’s got so much excitement that he practically bounces up and down where he sits. A sudden weekend camping trip in Upstate New York had been...unexpected, to say the least, and Peter hadn’t known how to feel about it, but now that he’s here, he can’t seem to get a smile off his face._

_His favorite part is the stars._

_It’s later in the night, after they’ve finished dinner and when Peter should be going to bed soon, when Ben asks a question. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me about it, but...May and I noticed you’ve been feeling down when you’re coming home from school lately. Wanna talk about it?”_

_Peter’s hands fold in his lap, and he quickly looks down, lower lip jutting outwards slightly. “It’s nothing...just some mean kids.”_

_Ben’s brows furrow. “Someone isn’t hurting you, are they?”_

_“No-” Peter shakes his head; he doesn’t want to tell them about this, but from the look on Ben’s face, he knows he should. “Just saying mean things...that’s it.”_

_“Peter, if they’re bullying you, we have to tell someone-”_

_“They just...Jason was saying things about how I don’t have any real parents. But you and May are like my mom and dad!”_

_Peter doesn’t see the look in Ben’s eyes as his words pull at his uncle’s heartstrings— he’s too busy looking at the trees. “Well, I feel bad for that kid, he doesn’t know what family really is.”_

_“He doesn’t?”_

_“Just because we’re not your mom and dad doesn’t mean we aren’t your real parents. Family is who you love. Your mom and dad loved you so much, and we love you just the same. People are just confused when they see someone a little different, that’s all.”_

_“I don’t really remember anything about them…” It’s strange, Peter never talks about this. “Mom and dad.”_

_There’s a pause from Ben, before he places a hand on Peter’s small shoulder. “Your dad, he was my brother, and he loved you the moment he saw your face. So did your mom. What happened is sad, but they’d be proud of you. And they’re still here with us. Up there, watching over you.”_

_“In the stars?”_

_Ben’s lips twitch upwards. “Yeah, in the stars.”_

_Peter cranes his neck to look up at the twinkling sky again, and he smiles too-- he has parents right here on Earth, May and Ben, but it’s nice, thinking about his other ones woven through the constellations, looking out for him._

_He leans closer to Ben’s side. “I love you.”_

_“Love you too, kiddo.”_

\---

The sky has grown dark now, and Peter can’t see any stars. He feels more alone than ever. 

He still hasn’t quite processed everything, but at least he’s come to terms with _something_ , at least he’s got some sort of _plan_ . He would have had to destroy his phone at some point, anyways-- he can’t risk getting tracked while hiding from _everyone_. Luckily, his web-shooters are mostly full, and he’s got extra vials of fluid stored in compartments in his suit. 

The hardest part is staying out of _sight_ . He can’t exactly swing out in the open, instead maneuvering his way through abandoned alleys and quiet roads, darting behind buildings and dumpsters to avoid people spotting him, his heart _racing_ every time he cuts it a little too close. He tries not to think too much, because if he thinks, he spirals— he _has_ to find a place where he can relax for awhile without being noticed first. Still, he can’t help the way his heart sinks in his chest when enhanced hearing allows him to overhear conversations about _how Spider-Man was behind the Europe attacks, how Spider-Man is just a kid, how the police are looking for him, how he goes to Midtown high, how he lives in an apartment with his aunt_. 

Peter doesn’t know where he is, and he hasn’t bothered to check, but at least he’s found some place _quiet_ . Or...less chaotic than where he’d been before. He likes to think he has _pretty great_ resilience-- after all, he can swing around on patrol for hours, fight criminals, and run laps in gym without breaking a single sweat (even if he has to pretend he’s tired halfway through the second one). But everything that’s happened, it’s taken a toll on him, and he ends up both emotionally _and_ physically exhausted. His arms and legs ache, burning with each step and swing, and his eyelids are growing heavier by the minute. Hunger claws at his stomach (stupid superhero metabolism-- _that’s_ going to be annoying), but he forces himself to ignore it. He’ll somehow find food tomorrow, he has to do _this_ first. 

He doesn’t know how long he searches either, having lost track of time since the second he saw his face on that screen, but _finally_ , as if the universe decided to give him **one** good thing all of a sudden, _he comes across an abandoned building_ . Or at least, it seems pretty abandoned. From the look of it, he guesses that it had been under construction at some point, maybe funds were cut and nobody is working on it anymore-- _at least there’s nobody there that can call the authorities on him_ , that’s _all_ he needs. 

He glances back and forth a few times, making sure that nobody is watching before he darts forwards. Figuring he shouldn’t try and go through the probably locked front door (he doesn’t really want to break that one, in case someone else tries to come in), he moves around the side until he finds another one, quickly reaching out to try the knob. That one’s locked too, but he doesn’t really have a problem with pulling _this_ one right off its hinges. It’s practically effortless, and in a matter of seconds, _he’s in_. 

The first thing Peter notices is how cold it is. 

He expected that, though (it may be summer, but chills still run through his body once night falls over the city), and his senses, or his...Peter Tingle ( _nope, don’t think about that, it makes him think of May_ ) aren’t tingling, which is always a good sign. He assumes that means nobody is here, but checks anyways, just to be safe, moving through each room on every floor (at least this place isn’t super tall) and making sure it’s completely abandoned. 

A relieved sigh falls from his lips once he finishes-- he did _not_ want to keep looking, or explain himself to somebody-- and he pulls off the mask again, dropping it just like he did on the rooftop. He can’t see himself, but he _definitely_ looks like shit. And he’s so tired, that he takes a few steps backwards until he bumps into the wall, sliding down to the floor. 

_Inhale. Exhale_ . Peter slowly pulls his knees to his chest, leaning his head back and staring upwards. It’s quiet, but there’s nothing but noise in his head, _Beck’s words over and over, the ringing of his senses, the call that wasn’t real_ . And guilt, a **lot** of guilt. A part of him hopes May, Ned, and MJ aren’t too worried, he doesn’t want to make things even _worse_ for him-- this will be good in the long run, right? This way, he doesn’t put them in any more danger, they won’t get hurt because of him. ~~Besides, he doesn’t think he has the courage to face them anyways.~~

His bones are weary, and thinking about it just hurts-- everything does. He doesn’t want to think...he just wants to sleep. 

Peter’s eyes fall closed, and he imagines that, instead of a grimy ceiling, he’s sitting underneath the stars. 


	2. leave as though fire burns under your feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man first of all just to get it out there i'm sorry this took me awhile to update! i got super busy around the holidays and started fixating on some other stuff for a bit, but this fic is 100% still continuing, cause like i said, i have Plans™️ hope you enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> trigger warning for descriptions of gun use

“Hey, kid, what’cha workin’ on?” 

A grin spreads across Peter’s face the moment he hears Mr. Stark’s voice, turning his head to the side to catch sight of his mentor standing over his shoulder and peering at what Peter is working on. He can still barely wrap his head around all of this. He’s working in **Tony Stark’s** lab, the Tony Stark that’s been his childhood hero for as long as he can remember. He can still picture the moment he saw Mr. Stark on TV, revealing to everyone that he was the one taking the world by storm, Iron Man. Peter still has his action figures, his iron man helmet, the tiny gauntlet, and that night at the Expo...it’s still clear in his head. Iron Man saved his life-- _nice work, kid_ still echoes in his memories...but Peter never told Mr. Stark about it. And now, he’s here, at the Avengers Compound, working alongside the man he’s looked up to for so long. 

“Just an upgrade for my web-shooters.” Peter’s gaze flickers back towards the tech sitting in front of him, absentmindedly twisting a screwdriver between his fingers. “I’ve-- uh, I’ve been working on a few adjustments to the fluid? I wanna make it stronger, while also being able to use less of it, so I don’t run out too fast.” He almost blurts out a story about the time he ran out of webbing in the middle of swinging, but manages to stop himself just in time. _If he knows anything about Mr. Stark, that’ll land Peter in the middle of a lecture faster than he could swing out of here_. 

Tony’s brows raise, head tilting slightly as he looks over Peter’s work, before the corner of his lips twitches into a smirk. “Maybe you wouldn’t run out of fluid so much if you didn’t shoot it at your mirror while pretending to save people, kid.” 

Peter’s mouth falls open, and he whips his head backwards. “How do you know about that?!” 

“You know you never disabled the _Baby Monitor Protocol_ , right? _All_ that blackmail footage is stored right in Karen’s files, maybe we should show Thor your impression some time, Point Break would _love it_.” 

“No!” Peter’s voice squeaks, his face scarlet red. “No-- Thor’s-- uh, doing important...god...stuff...up in space, he _doesn’t need to see that_. I-- uh, I kinda forgot you could-” 

Tony laughs, shaking his head and lightly patting Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t show anyone, _not even your ridiculously hot aunt_ .” Peter scoffs, reaching over to lightly swat his mentor’s arm. There was a time when he never would have _dreamed_ of doing that, but after countless days spent hanging around the tower, building stuff in the lab, team-ups here and there, and even Tony coming to his apartment for _dinner_ that one time, it starts to really sink in that this is _real_ . Peter knows Tony Stark-- hell, he has _inside jokes_ with Tony Stark (he actually apologized...in his own _Tony way_ that is, but May just clapped back. Peter never expected her to like Tony, but they actually started to get along in a weird way... _and team up to be overprotective against him_ . The day May tried to make Tony one of Peter’s emergency contacts and he had to show up at Midtown because nobody would believe her is _still_ burned into Peter’s brain). “I don’t watch all those videos or anything like that, either, I’m your _mentor_ , not a stalker.”

A pause hangs in the air, and Peter swears he sees something flicker through Tony’s eyes. There’s this weird heavy feeling in his chest (not _weird_ , just...different-- they never really talked about what exactly their connection... _is_ ), but he swallows, shaking it away. “Yeah-- yeah, _I know_ . I-- uh, _I should prob’ly stop doing that with the mask on, though_ ,” He speaks with a small smile. 

Tony exhales with a nod, and the topic shifts. “So, Happy told me some kids at your school don’t believe you have an internship with me?” His brows raise, and Peter is caught up in his own surprise for a moment. He hadn’t even meant to tell _Happy_ about that. 

“What? Oh-- um, I mean, I say I...I tell them I do the-- uh, the Stark Internship when I’m talking about Spidey stuff, y’know. It-- it usually works, some people just don’t think it’s true, it’s fine, though! It’s not a big deal-” 

“It’s your _cover story_ , Pete. Wha’d’you say we _prove_ you’re hanging out with me, huh?” 

Next thing Peter knows, he’s standing next to Mr. Stark in front of a huge wall, the Stark Industries logo standing out behind them. They’re holding a certificate, one that Mr. Stark _already had_ ready, which caught Peter by surprise. He’s pulled a brown blazer over his nerdy T-shirt to look _somewhat_ professional, and Pepper Potts is standing opposite them with a camera in her hands. Peter has already doubled over laughing more than once, and when he raises his head, he reaches out to grip the edge of the certificate. 

“That’s gonna look stupid! We can’t just stand here, it’ll look really weird and fake!” 

“You know this _is_ a fake internship, right?” Tony responds, but there’s a slight smile on his face as well. 

“I-- _yeah!_ But it’s gotta _look_ real. Oh, what if we do peace signs behind each other’s heads?! You know, bunny ears?” 

“Yeah that’s _real_ professional, underoos.” 

“Oh, come on, Tony, it’d be cute!” Pepper (who’s neglected to tell them the certificate has been upside down this whole time) interrupts, lowering the camera for a moment. Tony seems to give in a few moments later, and Peter can _see_ he’s resisting the urge to keep smiling. 

“Alright, _bunny ears it is_ ” 

Peter quietly celebrates, a large grin spreading across his face as he lifts his hand (fingers quickly forming a peace sign) behind Mr. Stark’s head, smiling towards the camera. She _snaps_ the photo, and the bright light of the flash is oddly blinding, flooding Peter’s vision. There’s a sudden pang drumming against his temple, and he _swears_ there was a greenish hue to the brightness, until the light disappears, and he’s shrouded in darkness instead. Peter’s heart leaps in his chest, and he’s seized by the odd familiarity of it all. And just as quick as it appeared, the blackness is gone. 

_“What’s wrong, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”_

Peter turns towards the voice, _and sees Tony’s corpse staring back at him_ . A decaying form concealed underneath remnants of a damaged Iron Man suit, bits of skeleton peering from underneath the dirty metal. The eye socket is dark, _hollow_ , and cobwebs cling to its form. Any signs of life, any bits of skin or soul infused through human eyes are gone-- Mr. Stark is standing right where he was before, but _dead_ . Dead, dead, dead and gone, and he _remembers_ this image, but Peter can still feel the bile rising in his throat. He’s shaking, stumbling backwards, _he’s gonna throw up_ . _He’s gonna be sick all over the floor, and Mr. Stark will get mad at him ‘cause then he has to get someone to clean it up, but there isn’t any Mr. Stark to be mad. Just the vacant, empty, lifeless corpse in front of him_ . He tries to speak, but no sound comes out, just panicked breaths, and a voice that he never wanted to hear again booming around him-- YOU DID THIS TO HIM-- ~~Mr. Stark~~ The corpse raises ~~his~~ it’s hand, the blaster up towards Peter’s face, but Peter doesn’t move, _he’s frozen_ \--IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU, HE’D BE ALIVE-- The blaster goes off, it’s heading straight for him, MOVE- 

Peter startles awake. 

Air catches in his throat, and he just about chokes on it as he jolts forwards. A hand flies backwards to press against the grimy ground beneath him, holding himself upright as his chest heaves up and down. He blinks a couple times, panic still holding him in its ferocious grip, and the flickering ghost of Tony crawling out from beyond Beck’s faux grave persists in his head. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_ . The corpse stands out, _it doesn’t belong_ , and after Peter shuts his eyes tight and opens them again, he manages to (temporarily) expel the nightmare from his mind. Limbs weary and eyelids heavy, his still frantic gaze flickers around the unfamiliar room. He doesn’t remember how he got here, _can’t remember where he is_ , but it only takes a moment for the realization to wash over him. 

Yesterday’s events (Is it even the next day? How long was he asleep?) replay in his head like a movie, as if they were all apart of his dream. He wants it to have been fake, something he conjured up in his head. Any moment now, he’ll wake up on the couch in his apartment to May standing over him, the strong aroma of warm breakfast filling the apartment. She’ll know he had some kind of bad dream, but she won’t make him talk about it. He’ll watch Star Wars with Ned and MJ will visit later and he’ll get to hold her hand again and maybe even kiss her when no one’s looking. But the freezing cold air of the abandoned room he’s sat in says otherwise. 

There’s a crook in his neck from sleeping strange, and he sways slightly where he sits, pushing down the nerves bubbling up in his stomach-- come on, he has to _think_ . Everything is sinking in now. Beck framed him for the attacks. Beck exposed his identity. Everyone thinks Peter is a criminal, a murderer. People will want to arrest him, they’ll come to try and kill him for it. The Daily Bugle might not be the most trustworthy news source, but from what he’s seen plastered across screens he swung by the night before, the video has already spread like the plague. If he’s being sought after, he can’t afford to keep on sitting here. He’ll be found if he stays in one place too long (besides, he has to figure out a way to somehow conceal his suit, and handle the... _food_ issue). 

So as much as he wants to stay collapsed on the ground and allow his exhaustion to wash over him like waves pushing him further under the ocean (he can almost feel his lungs filling with water, the overwhelming weight of his crumbling life suffocating him), Peter forces himself up. He reaches out for his mask, pulling it over his face again-- _he knows there’s no point to it._ Everyone already knows, what is there left to hide? 

Maybe it’s some sort of false security. Peter tells himself it’s the built-in tech instead. 

Rather than making his way down the stairs, Peter searches for the nearest window, quickly finding it and pulling it open. A rush of fresh air hits him, and he thinks about how nice it would be to swing through the open skies, flipping between skyscrapers and waving at citizens down below. Now, he has to peer downwards before climbing out, to make sure no one is watching. Fingers latch onto the concrete wall, and Peter almost wants to nod off again (what _time_ is it?), but he figures that probably _isn’t_ the best idea while clinging to the edge of a building. 

He cranes his neck to get a look at the rooftop above him-- not too much higher, but what is he gonna do up there? Sit around until he’s found or starves to death, whichever comes first? He has to _do something_ about this. Peter can already feel the hunger pains gnawing at him again, but what is he even supposed to do about that? He doesn’t have any money on him, and even if he did, _no one would sell anything to the hottest accused murderer in Queens_. 

He scales down the wall before spotting a nearby fire escape, dropping downwards and hitting his feet against the metal. Peter guesses he could at _least_ figure out some way to disguise himself. He doesn’t have any clothes to change into (he should keep the suit on, anyways-- he assumes he’ll have to defend himself sometime soon), but the bright red isn’t really the most...subtle of outfits. Maybe he could find something to throw on over it for a little while. 

Peter finally lands on the ground, situated in yet another alleyway, and…he has no idea where to start. Going home (or anywhere _near_ his apartment) isn’t an option, and he has to keep himself out of sight at all costs. There’s a bit of a wet sensation at the soles of his suit, and when he peers downwards, he notices the reflective puddle on the ground. His reflection is muddled, distorted, but his looks resemble exactly how he feels: _like a complete_ _mess_. Peter lifts his hands, running fingers through matted curls, and pushing them forward. His hair is far from long enough to cover his face, but at least it looks...a _little_ different than his picture. 

_That’s the best he can do for now_. 

Unable to do anything else, Peter starts moving. Just walking (he has to conserve as much web fluid as he can-- there’s only a few extra vials stored in his suit, and he won’t be able to make _any more_ ), weaving his way through secluded alleys and turning around abandoned corners. He’s guessing it’s pretty early, because while the streets are crowded (they _always_ are), there aren’t as _many_ people out and about. Heightened senses and staying light on his feet help him keep out of sight, but he can’t help the way his heart jumps with sudden terror every time someone nearly spots him. 

Oh, and he finds out that the story has already hit the newspapers when a stray page blowing through the wind hits him in the face. _Awesome_. 

He forces himself not to read it, just watches as it landed in _another_ pool of water. The way the paper crumples at the edges as a dark stain spreads across his smiling photo is oddly fitting. 

He thinks he might have been walking for an hour or two when he finally comes across something _useful_ . Peter notices a large department store, figuring he should at least try checking around the back to see if there’s anything strewn across the ground or piled up near the dumpsters. _It’s not like he has anything else to do_ . And just like he expected, there’s excess clothing laying about, scattered around various smelly trash-bags and cardboard boxes. A burst of anger blooms in his chest-- _they could be donating the unsold clothes instead of throwing them away, it’s not fair_ \--, but there isn’t much at all he can do about that. He searches around, before picking up the best jacket he can find. It’s tattered, frayed at the edges, and the dark brown color is almost sickly, but it’s _better than nothing_. Peter slides it over his shoulders-- fits well enough-- before pulling the zipper tight over his suit and lifting the hood. Bits of red are exposed underneath tears in the material; still, at least it covers the spider emblems on his chest and back. 

It’s a start, but not quite enough, so after a bit more looking, Peter picks up a pair of grey sweatpants. They’re about the same quality as the jacket, but they cover up his legs pretty well. _At least he can check off one box in his head_. 

The rest of the day is a blur, long hours bleeding together in his foggy head. The thought of food persists in his mind, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t find anything. He knows he can keep going a little longer, doesn’t want to resort to eating food from the trash just yet ( _gross_ ), but he’s guessing there won’t be a lot of options _besides_ that soon enough. He grows tired of making his way through the city, and when he figures he’s far enough from where he dozed off the night before, the kid climbs up the side of another building, avoiding any windows, _just in case_ . The rooftop is much less secluded than the abandoned building he found before, but he needs a place to sit down for a moment, collect his thoughts, maybe. _But what else is there to think about?_ He has to keep himself cut off from everybody, since he can’t risk endangering the people around him. More than he already has, that is. His mind races with all the possible results of his own _stupidity_ , none of them good. May, his friends, they could be bombarded with questions, targeted...or worse. 

Peter thinks he’s known it since the moment Ben died. He’s a ticking time bomb, a fire at his fingertips that burns everything he touches. It’s only so long before he hurts everyone around him. 

Better to lower that risk by staying away. 

It’s not the most comfortable of places, but Peter has always been able to find solace on rooftops, and when he stirs amidst bleak darkness hours later, he doesn’t even remember falling asleep (the nightmare lingers, though-- the train heading towards him, a gunshot millimeters away from his skull, Beck’s face scrunched up in laughter, knowing he still managed to win, clutching Peter in an iron grip beyond the grave). It’s nighttime, now, which is unsurprising, given that his sleep schedule was _already_ fucked up. 

He takes to wandering through the streets again. He needs to find some place more _secure_ , somewhere he knows he won’t be found for a while, but for now, this is the only option he has. Powers keep him from getting too tired, but he can only go for so long without his feet aching with each step, and the ever-present reminder of his own hunger booming in his head. 

And then he hears a sharp inhale behind him. 

Peter’s head whips around, mechanical lenses of his mask going wide, and his heart hammering in his chest as he makes direct eye contact with a complete stranger. A man who seems a little older than May, looking at him in a way that Peter has _never_ seen anyone stare at him while he’s in the suit. Faces of the people he’s rescued, ones he pulled out of danger race through his head-- young and old, civilians just like the person standing opposite him, but the other’s gaze is confused...almost fearful and...angry. Peter’s blood runs cold. 

“Listen, it’s not-- I didn’t-” 

His voice comes out hoarse, and Peter swears he doesn’t even recognize it. As if he’s shifted into someone else in the hours since that video shook his entire world. He quickly lifts his hands up, trying to show that he doesn’t want to hurt the man, doesn’t want to hurt _anyone_ , but the other takes a few steps back, subtly reaching into his pocket. No doubt going to grab his phone. _Shit_. 

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone, I swear, I didn’t-- I didn’t kill anybody. He framed me-” 

_“Get away from me.”_ The words sink in with a sharp sting, and Peter can feel the venom laced through them. He catches the obvious tinge of fear, and he can’t blame people for being confused, but...he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart _sink_ , knowing how quick some could turn on him, just like that. 

“I’ll call the police, I swear I’ll call the fucking police. They’re already looking for you-” 

“H-- hold on, _wait_ , just-” Peter’s hands are shaking again, they’re trembling so fucking much and there’s a watery burning in his eyes that he can’t blink back. A million words sit on the tip of his tongue, explanations and apologies, but the lump lodged in his throat stops the sound from coming out. 

“Are you insane?!-- don’t touch me!” Peter hadn’t realized he swayed slightly closer in his stupor. The man pauses, as if he’s shocked himself with his own words, _probably because he just yelled at who he thinks is a cold-blooded killer_ . The phone is out of the man’s pocket now, though, and despite open space all around him, Peter is too _frozen_ to run. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t _prepared_ for anything like this. He should be running, swinging out of here as fast as he can, but he can’t help immediately trying to _explain himself_. He doesn’t want the world to see him this way. He doesn’t want to be known as the murderer who sent killer drones all across different countries, killing innocent people with no remorse. He doesn’t want to carry the legacy of a villain after just lifting the weight of a hero’s off his shoulders. 

But this is the way it is now. 

“I didn’t do what he said I did, I-- I’m not-- I won’t-” Peter’s words fall flat as the man continues to take slow steps backwards. He’s dialing his phone, and Peter doesn’t do a _thing_ about it. It’s only when keen hearing catches the ringing that a bit of common _sense_ kicks in, and he makes a break for it. 

His muscles burn as he swings through the air, quickly losing track of how long he’s been propelling himself forward or where he might be. He had immediately activated his web-shooters, using a nearby lamppost to bring himself higher up. He just barely manages to keep himself hidden, with the chaos in his head and the growing blurriness of his vision. Peter has to get _far_ away-- the cops know where he was last, they’ll find him, they’ll _arrest_ him, and God, just the thought of all this makes him feel unbelievably dizzy. He might not have done what Mysterio said, _but he sure as hell doesn’t feel like a hero, either_. 

\---

Ever since then, Peter has begun to slip into a sort of routine. He doesn’t know if he can even call it that, because it doesn’t seem at all _structured_ . The system could topple over any day. And he’s _constantly_ on edge because of it. The hairs on his arms stand up every time he knows others are getting a little too close, breath catches in his throat whenever he hears a nearby noise. He checks, double checks, triple checks before going anywhere, unsure if he can even rely on his senses anymore. They kicked in during the fight in London, but what if he loses track of it again? _He can’t afford that right now_. And coupled with the paranoia constantly clawing at him, Peter is...a complete wreck. 

But at least he’s got some sort of system, even if it isn’t stable. He never stays in one place too long, scouting out the city for more abandoned buildings (usually consisting of secluded rooftops and sketchy warehouses) and anywhere he can hide without getting caught. Food is still hard-- Peter doesn’t want to steal, as stupid as that sounds. He knows all the local places, doesn’t want to take from the hard-working owners and employees. And any of the chain locations... _they’re pretty hard to sneak into without getting caught_ . He can’t go on forever without eating, though, so he takes some from behind restaurants, and whenever he manages to find a bit of cash on the ground, he buys some...in his... _own_ way (Run in, grab what he needs, throw enough money on the counter, run out before anyone can recognize him). It was never good...but it was enough, at least. 

_He remembers sitting in an alleyway one day, exhausted. He hadn’t noticed the lady walking up to him, and when he did look up, despite nearly jumping right out of his skin, she seemed...familiar. She looked sure of herself, didn’t say a thing, and Peter had wondered why she was approaching a known murderer so_ **_openly_ ** _. Why wasn’t she calling the police? She had something in her hands, gesturing Peter to take it, and speechless, Peter reached out. “I know you would never do such a thing.” She smiles, but she’s gone as quick as she showed up, and when Peter opens the warm bundle, he finds a few churros wrapped inside._

 _That was the best day so far_. 

The days drag on slowly, though, and Peter can feel it getting to him more and more. He doesn’t have many chances to see himself, but he has a feeling the circles under his eyes are darker than ever, and he hasn’t exactly... _stayed out of sight_ this whole time. As hard as he tries, civilians catch him, and before he knows it, he’s running from the police again-- if it weren’t for the adrenaline pumping through him every time, he doesn’t know if he’d even be able to evade them, with how exhausted he is. 

And now that everyone knows his identity...he’s found out there are _plenty_ of people who want him dead. Peter has fought a lot of people, put a lot of criminals in jail, and even besides all that... _there’s those out there who want to see Spider-Man suffer for some reason_. The first time he was caught by one of them, they grabbed him by the back of his jacket, shoving him against the nearest wall and punching him right in the face. Pain blossomed through his throbbing cheek (maybe he should have been wearing the mask), and he just barely managed to wriggle himself out. Super strength saved him, but that was when he realized he doesn’t only have to run from the police. 

Another day, he had been sprinting away from a mob of Mysterio supporters-- he hadn’t meant to get so close, but once one spotted him, he didn’t lose them for what _felt_ like forever. Of course, the moment he stumbled into another alley, finally far enough from getting caught again, he ended up face to face with more graffiti. He’d seen ones resembling it already, but there was something about seeing his suit plastered onto a nearby wall, and a bright white ‘MURDERER’ scrawled over it that made something inside him crack. Sliding down the wall, it was as if a knife in his back twisted even further. Every breath was like swallowing glass, and he hugged his knees to his chest while sudden sobs wracked his body. It sunk in then, _really_ sunk in, seeped right into his bones and he couldn’t wrestle himself free anymore-- _this is the way things are now. And it’s irreversible_. 

Yeah, he wouldn’t say the past two weeks have been the best. 

Now (around noon, he thinks), Peter is sat on a fire escape, wringing his mask through his hands in an attempt to keep them busy. His suit is looser on his body, now that Peter doesn’t weigh as much as he did before, and dried blood clings to his nose and lip. There’s a healing bruise on one side of his face, a black eye on the other, and his hair is tangled and dirty. It’s a rare moment of rest, and if Peter wasn’t so exposed, he’d allow himself to doze off. That, and if he didn’t feel so...restless. 

It’s weird, considering he’s barely gotten any sleep lately, but he feels like he needs to _do something_ . Stop running around and hiding, and do something good again. He was gone for five whole years, and after crime rates had gone up when half the population disappeared, Peter had to return to it, left with more to do than ever. Now, he can’t openly patrol, not without the risk of getting caught, but the thought of people getting _hurt_ because he isn’t there continues to persist in his mind. Some may have believed Mysterio’s words right away, but even if everyone around him hates him...Peter still can’t bring himself to stay back when he could _do something_ helpful. Lately, he hasn’t felt like a hero at all. The constant backlash, the panic, all the running, it’s worn him down-- he feels pathetic. His life has been ripped away from him, but Peter still grasps for that missing piece, aching to feel important again. 

_Because if he isn’t a hero anymore, then what does he have left?_

As if on cue, his ears prick up as a distant sound of an alarm blares through his head. It’s faint, but nearby, and he can tell it’s some kind of security system going off. His heart jumps, and he jolts upwards, pulling the mask over his face. He doesn’t think, doesn’t consider how badly this could go, just _jumps_ right into action. For a moment, he feels like he’s fifteen again, swinging through the city air and doing flips in the sky as his own cheers echoed around him. _Except this time, he’s dirtier with a jacket and sweatpants over his suit_. 

It’s only a block away, and once Peter gets close enough, he realizes it’s a bank robbery (eerily similar to the one he stopped around the beginning of his sophomore year). He swallows, knowing people will spot him the moment he shows up, but he doesn’t allow himself to hesitate. He _needs_ to be Spider-Man, needs to show the world that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, needs to be a _hero_. And before he knows it, he’s flipping in through the opened door, raising his arms and immediately pinning one of the robbers’ wrists to a wall with his webs. “No invite?! I knew you guys had a group chat without me!” The quip seems out of place, as if Peter isn’t really the one saying it-- he feels too disconnected from himself. 

“Oooh, _Spider-Man_ decides to show up.” One of them snarls, flashing a cocky grin towards Peter and raising the weapon in his hands-- it almost resembles the ones Vulture and his crew were making. _He’s handled plenty of alien tech, this’ll be a piece of cake_. “No offense kid, but don’t you have cities to attack or heroes to murder? This seems a little below your standards, don't ‘cha think?” 

Peter’s blood boils, and he clenches his teeth-- _he didn’t do that, he never did that. He wants to shout it from the rooftops, somehow make everyone understand. But now isn’t the time_. His senses flare up, and he quickly ducks, dodging a blast from the gun. “Nothin’ like a good old fashioned bank robbery to get the blood flowing! You guys know there’s way easier ways to get money, right?” Another robber moves to attack Peter from behind, but he jumps upwards just in time, flipping himself around so his feet stick to the ceiling, and he’s hanging upside down. “It’s over, Anakin, I have the high ground!” A punch to the criminal’s face, and he’s stumbling backwards, nearly passed out, and Peter quickly webs him up just in case. 

He lets go, landing on his feet, and before he knows it, he’s dodging attempted blows, flipping over robbers and spitting out quips left and right. His heart is pumping fast, newfound energy flowing through his body, and he’s _smiling_ underneath the mask. He doesn’t think he’s smiled since the last time he saw MJ, right before the broadcast. But fighting crime, pulling unnecessary (but really cool) moves and letting out every humorous thought that comes to mind makes him feel like himself again. Just for a moment, his head is clear. He forgets about Beck, forgets about how alone he’s been, forgets about what everyone thinks about him. For now, he can be Spider-Man. He’s still a friendly neighborhood hero. 

Until the deafening boom of a gunshot snaps him right back to reality. 

Peter’s ears begin to ring, eyes wide as his heart drops in his chest, and for a moment, he’s standing on the bridge in London again, gripping Beck’s wrist and just barely avoiding a fatal blow. He can’t hear a thing around him, the world is swimming, blurring at the edges, and when Peter finally turns his head around, lights flashing red and blue flood his vision. Police, but the guns aren’t pointed at the robbers. _No, they’re pointed right at Peter_ . He exhales, pushing all the air in his lungs out with it, and a sudden burning feeling **_explodes_ ** from his lower abdomen, spreading through his entire body like wildfire. 

“Don’t move! Put your hands up!” 

Everything muffles around him, and Peter stumbles slightly to the side. It’s too loud, _everything is too loud_ , his own heavy breathing mixing with the incessant ringing sound. He isn’t sure if the sirens are real, or if they’re just alarms blaring in his head, yelling at him to get **out**. 

“I said put your hands up!” 

One hand instead clutches Peter’s stomach-- it feels warm, _wet_ , every single inch of him stings. He doesn’t raise them up. 

The last thing he registers is repeated bangs as the triggers are pulled again, before his feet pound against the pavement as he begins to _run_.


	3. better stop dreaming of the quiet life ‘cause it’s one we’ll never know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this update took me even LONGER to get done, 'cause of...a lot of things, really (focus on other stuff, finishing school, pretty much everything going on lately) but this chapter is a bit longer so i hope that at least?? Sort Of makes up for it lmao. hope you guys enjoy, next one is coming soon!

Peter has grown used to when things don’t feel real. 

None of this has-- not the world around him when reminders of illusions persist in his head, or his face plastered across billboards and headlines, or the red and blue lights that make his eyes burn. And it doesn’t as he races through the streets, either. Not the heavy pounding of his feet against the pavement, the shoulders he bumps into as he maneuvers past confused bystanders, the commotion behind him. His vision blurs at the edges, and _no, he can’t be that lightheaded right now_. 

Except dark crimson stains the hand he keeps clutched around his waist, the fabric of his jacket flying behind him while he runs. _Run, run, run-- that’s all he can do lately_. 

Fuck, he forgot how much bullets hurt. 

The sound of sirens follows close behind, and Peter knows he has to pick up the pace. They had him surrounded, barely even acknowledging the criminals. _There’s that familiar sting again._ He doesn’t linger on the thought, though, remaining focused on getting himself away from them. Citizens scream, a few more shots go off (ones Peter somehow manages to narrowly avoid), and his resolve _slips_ . The longer he lasts, the more he finds himself ready to fall. Tumble to the ground while still grabbing his side, cry out from the pain or the hunger or _everything_ , let them surround and restrain him and drag him to wherever the hell they want to take him. It might even be better than the hell that everything else has been so far. 

But he doesn’t give up. 

Despite the _burning feeling_ spread through every inch of his body, Peter grits his teeth and raises his wrist, a line of webbing attaching to a nearby lamppost and pulling him into the air. He propels himself off of it, before swinging through the air-- _completely exposed_ . He keeps a firm grip on the wound ( _pressure, put lots and lots of pressure on it and it might stop the bleeding enough. He learned that...a lot of times, actually, but definitely after stumbling into HQ after a particularly bad patrol and nearly giving Mr. Stark a heart attack_ ), but he knows it won’t be enough. With his ears still ringing, both hands shaking, and repeated gasps of pain with every movement, Peter has a feeling he can’t keep moving for much longer. Which means he needs to get rid of them _quick_. 

He doesn’t know how far he manages to get before his strength _really_ begins to give out. Yelling still persists close behind him, but he tries to make quick turns, unpredictable movements to confuse everyone trying to catch him, and hopefully get a chance to _escape_ . But as the blood drips further down his suit, he grows even dizzier, and his fingers slowly _slip_ from the web between them. 

_It’s not a smooth landing_ . He hits the ground with a loud thud, rolling slightly forwards and curling in on himself to hopefully prevent even _more_ injuries. There’s a strange noise that comes with it, and it isn’t until a few moments later that Peter realizes it was _him_ , a strangled, raspy yelp that barely sounded like his voice at all. And as much as he wants to stay that way, let himself lay sprawled out on the ground and _forget_ the pain coursing through his body, he isn’t free yet. The sirens keep approaching, and Peter presses trembling, bloody hands to the pavement, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbles slightly, but doesn’t spare a glance backwards before taking off again. 

_And running straight into someone._

“Ow!” 

Peter had already backed away, but the moment he hears the voice and looks downwards, his heart _drops_ in his chest. A little girl stands opposite him, with stringy blonde hair (a few strands held up with brightly-colored clips), and thick, circular glasses that sit slightly crooked. Themed band-aids decorate her face and arms, and she looks up at him with... _awe?_

“Sorry! I’m sorry-- are you okay? You’re not hurt-- are you?” The words spill out fast, almost slurred together as Peter tries his best to hold onto consciousness. Tilting vision and black spots make it harder to see her, but she doesn’t seem fazed at all. In fact, she...isn’t scared at all. 

“WOAH, are you Spider-Man?! You look _different_ , Spidey doesn’t wear clothes over his suit,” She laughs (at least she hasn’t noticed the blood). And Peter, _he’s confused_ . Almost shocked, actually, but there’s barely any time to dwell on that, because he can _hear_ the police getting closer. 

“Um, ye-- ah, yeah, I am. I’m kinda in th’middle of somethin’, I can’t-- I have to-” 

As if a switch is flipped, she glances behind him, and her eyes go wide. “ _Are they chasing you?_ They talked about it on the news-- over there! There’s a _huge_ dumpster, go hide behind it!” 

Despite barely processing a thing she says, Peter looks towards where she points, and _there it is_ . He doesn’t have any time to question it, _or the fact that he’s taking advice from a girl who can’t be any older than eight_ , instead nodding and scrambling towards the hiding spot. He quickly squeezes behind the structure and the nearby wall, holding the injury again and leaning his head back. Teeth clenched, Peter tries to keep the heavy breathing to a minimum. _Just until they’re gone_. 

And the girl, she stays right where she is as a few policemen run down the alleyway. She starts jumping up and down, _furiously_ waving towards them. “Police! I saw him! I saw Spider-Man! He was here!” For a moment, Peter’s stomach flips-- _is he really about to be sold out by an eight year old? Might as well just accept his fate now._

“Where did he go? Did he hurt you?” One of them asks. 

She shakes her head in response. “No-- just went by, but you gotta catch him quick! He went all the way down that way, and then turned right and did this crazy swing into the air. What’re you waiting for?!-- go get him!” 

She must have been a pretty talented actress, because there’s only a second-long pause, before the cops seem to agree. “Right-- thank you. Get inside for now, it’s dangerous to stay out here with someone like him on the loose. Come on, let’s go!” In a matter of moments, Peter hears the sound of car doors shutting, _and they’re gone_. 

“Okay, you can come out now!” 

Peter presses his hand to the wall (leaving another bloody print) and stands from behind the dumpster, slowly limping out before leaning against it for support. “You...steered them away from me?” 

“Mhm!” She nods, looking _especially_ proud of herself, before blue eyes dart slightly downwards, and _well, now she sees it_ . “Do...do you need help? Hold on!-- I have something-” Before Peter can even get another word in, she rushes around to the sidewalk and right into what he _guesses_ is an apartment building. 

_What just happened?_ Not every one of Peter’s encounters have been completely horrible, but that was the last thing he expected. Countless citizens angry, afraid, with 911 on speed dial, criminals that tried to kill him, and then...a little girl that gets the police off his back. He would be thinking about it more, if it weren’t for the _excruciating_ pain that explodes through his side. Arms raise to lean against the dumpster, and Peter tilts his head to the side, letting his eyes fall closed and trying his best to take steady breaths. 

A triumphant “I’m back!” pulls him from his head, and Peter looks towards her again to see...a bag of medical supplies. “I don’t really know how to use all this, but my mom said it was for emergencies.” 

But Peter doesn’t move-- he just...stares at her for a few moments, a _shocked_ look underneath the mask, before saying just about the stupidest thing he probably could. “You helped me…” 

She gives him a perplexed look for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah! You should put this stuff on it-” Giving up on trying to make sense of all this for a moment, Peter moves away from the dumpster, backing against the wall again and sitting down next to it. He slides the jacket off his shoulders, and feels his lower back-- _yep, there’s the exit wound_ . More blood, but at least he doesn’t have to figure out how to _remove_ the bullet. 

_Wow, he’s glad she got this bag_ . He finds a considerable amount of gauze and bandages inside, clenching his teeth through the pain and slowly getting to work on cleaning the wound. As he works on that (soon applying the dressings), he learns a little more about her. Her name is Ophelia Lewis, she’s seven and a half ( _not_ eight just yet), she really likes to talk, and she... _really loves Spider-Man_. 

“They’re saying a lotta stuff about you on the news, but I never believed _any_ of it. None of us did! Liam-- he’s my brother-- said it didn’t make any sense, you’ve been a hero a lot longer than Mysterio was, and we’ve seen all the good stuff you’ve done! He also told me they could’a faked the video, and you _saved_ him once, you wouldn’t do any of that!” 

_That_ catches Peter’s attention. He looks up from wrapping a bandage around his body, lenses on his mask wider. “I saved him?” 

Ophelia smiles, nodding again. “He was with his friend when there was a fire in the building. They were stuck at the top before you came in and got both of them out. He said it was really scary, but you saved everyone!” 

_Peter remembers_. 

“I thought you were really cool before too,” She continues. “But then you were my favorite!” 

And despite the overwhelming pain, the _pathetic_ feeling of being slumped over in an alleyway and needing help from a little kid, there’s a rush of _warmth_ that surges through Peter’s chest. Because out there, there’s still people who believe in him. People who think he’s...good. 

That makes him feel a little more like a hero than anything else since the video released. 

Peter exhales, with a kind of laughter he hasn’t had for awhile, before lifting his free hand to pull his mask off. _He doesn’t know if it’s the best idea,_ given the assortment of injuries that still litter his face, but he wants her to know he appreciates it...all of this. “ _Thanks_ . You know, I think _you’re_ one of the best fans I’ve ever met. You’ve got what it takes to be a hero.” His voice is exhausted, but words remain genuine, and Ophelia’s eyes _light up_. 

“Really?” Her toothy grin practically shines, and Peter is...glad he’s managed to not _mess_ one thing up. “I wanna be _just_ as heroic as you!” 

_Geez, is this how Tony felt around him?_ Just about everything that’s happened, it’s made Peter feel like more of a mess then ever-- but here’s this one little kid, _looking up to him._ “You’re...gonna do some great things, I know it. _You already did._ ” 

Ophelia’s smile grows even more, as she begins to lean back and forth on her heels. “I should probably go back inside soon, _Mom’s gonna be worried_...but you can keep some extra stuff!” She grabs the bag, fishing through it and handing Peter additional gauze, bandages, and antiseptic, which he gratefully takes. “Everyone’s gonna realize you’re a hero again, Spidey, I know it!” 

“Um-- _thanks_ , thank you--” Peter sputters slightly, but his lips tug upwards as she makes her way back around to the door, looking back at him and waving before rushing inside, no doubt eager to talk about her encounter with Spider-Man. 

And Peter is left dumbfounded. 

He doesn’t get up right away, instead leaning his head against the wall and letting his eyes fall closed, exhaling with relief. The wound still _aches_ , along with his other injuries, but he isn’t bleeding out anymore, and he has _some_ supplies to keep himself afloat until his healing abilities hopefully take hold. Grabbing the jacket from the ground, Peter stuffs the supplies into a pocket (thankfully, they’re _huge_ ), and pulls it over his body again. 

All that she said, Ophelia’s words still echo through his head. Everything has stung lately, leaving him knocked down over and over again, except...this proves there are still people out there that... _believe in him_. Some that still think he’s a hero, even amidst all the chaos. And sure, he feels like shit, and maybe nothing is really fixed, but maybe he can let himself turn off all the noise in his head and believe too, just for a moment. 

\---

_“How many more days of detention do you have again?”_

_“Another week, I’m pretty sure.” Ned’s reply comes from below him, sat on the chair near Peter’s bed, a controller in hand. A tiny X-wing starfighter flies around his bedroom, zooming past where Peter is laying upside down from the top of his bunk bed. He could just stand that way on the ceiling, but that takes more energy, and with how packed his schedule is, he’ll take any sort of rest he can get._

_He grimaces slightly, stretching to grab a chip from the bag sat below. “Geez, sorry man.”_

_Ned shrugs, smiling slightly. “It’s fine, at least we’re still gonna be together. You know, ‘cause you’re never getting out of there.”_

_“Okay, good point,” Peter laughs. “_ **_Except_ ** _when I just walk out-- you know they just don’t care enough to stop us?”_

_“I think that’s what’s getting you more detentions. And skipping class, but you’ve got a real reason.”_

_“Yeah...guess I do sometimes.” Peter’s voice trails off, lips pressing together as he glances towards Ned. Ever since what happened with the Vulture (only a few weeks ago), and the offer he got to join the Avengers (one he declined, both because he’s definitely sure it was some kind of test, and because maybe staying on the ground for a little while isn’t as bad as he thought), he’s told himself he isn’t going to skip as much. Ride out the many,_ **_many_ ** _detentions he piled up, and let himself do school work and hero work. Unfortunately, he’s ended up dragging Ned into it too. Not that Ned isn’t eager-- Peter knows his best friend practically jumps to help him with anything superhero related. But there’s no doubt that they share detentions because of Peter, and now that Ned is acting as his guy in the chair...something could go wrong a lot easier._

_He’s glad Ned knows about his identity. Eight months without anyone to talk to about his double life besides the occasional communication with Happy (or attempted communication, the man rarely picked up) hadn’t been the easiest, and Ned seems to want to hear all about it. Grieving for his uncle and growing used to sudden superpowers had been...difficult, and now he isn’t quite as alone in it as he was before. Still, Peter had a reason to hide, a purpose behind concealing those aspects of himself. And even when nothing backfired in the end, guilt still claws at his insides._

_“Thanks,” He blurts out, which obviously caught Ned’s attention, because the X-wing bumps into the wall (before Ned regains control)-- the word hangs in the air as Peter wracks his brain for the right words. “--For, uh, being cool with all this.”_

_That’s when Ned stops moving the joystick entirely, giving Peter one of the most bewildered looks he’s ever seen. “Dude, you’re a_ **_superhero_ ** _. Of course I’m cool with it! This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me!”_

_“You still got detention ‘cause of it-- and that guy in the parking lot was super dangerous. You sure it’s...all good?”_

_“Peter, I swear on my life that this is the best thing you ever could’ve told me. You don’t have to worry about it, I’ll be fine.” And there’s a genuine touch to the words-- simplistic, yet...a promise. Ned was around for...Ben, and although Peter hadn’t gone into specifics, he did tell his best friend the general timeline of his powers. The two can read each other well, and as much as Peter won’t talk about it, he figures Ned might have a guess as to what pushed him to do all of this._

_Ned sticks through the risk; he still wants to be Peter’s guy in the chair._

_Lips stretching into an upside-down smile, Peter pushes himself off his bed, nearly falling on his head if not for a sudden flip that allows him to stick the landing (light on his feet, he barely makes a thud when he lands). “Okay, cool. Oh-- and I set up Mario Kart in the living room before you got here! Spidey stuff delayed our tournament for way too long.”_

\---

Gunshot wounds suck. 

Actually, most wounds do, but bullet wounds in particular tend to be pretty annoying. Along with other injuries he can’t bother counting, and a...limited amount of supplies. Super healing is a nice advantage, but it doesn’t fix _everything_ . The worse the wound, the longer his healing takes to fix it, and Peter doesn’t exactly have _regeneration_ or anything like that. He still has the supplies from Ophelia, but being on the run from...all authority and criminals with a grudge causes them to run out quicker than he would have hoped. 

He can’t stay here for long. The area is secluded enough, away from any casual passerby that might spot him, but not...the most hidden. Still, Peter needs a moment to catch his breath and check on his injuries. Swinging has been a pain-- the worse he gets, the more it hurts to move, and with the public on the lookout for him, he has to move _fast_. 

Leaning against the wall, he pulls the jacket back from around his frame, revealing the dirty and tattered suit underneath, with a bandage soaked in blood wrapped around his middle. A sigh, and Peter begins to unravel it, lips twitching into a frown as he observes the bullet hole. It’s begun to heal, but not enough. Dried blood still sticks to his suit and skin alike, and there’s a spike of _pain_ when he presses his fingertip to the injury on both sides. “Great, healing just chose the perfect time to work really slow.” With how malnourished he is, near constant exertion, and a whole _assortment_ of injuries, Peter isn’t surprised, but _holy shit, is it annoying_. 

Reaching into the pocket, he pulls out fresh bandages, enough to wrap securely around the wound-- he wishes he still had antiseptic to clean it with, but this will have to do for now. Besides, it should clear up...soon enough. Again, Peter finds himself unsure of how much time has passed since, each day and night blending together as they drag by, leaving him stuck in the same exact loop he has no way to escape from. 

It’s daytime now-- around...midafternoon, if he had to guess. He’s managed to lay low as much as possible lately, still facing the occasional encounter with unsuspecting civilians or relentless police officers, but Peter has made a point to be... _more_ careful than he already was after the bank robbery incident. The need to help others, though, is incessant. It rings through Peter’s head with Ophelia’s words, and sometimes...he just can’t ignore them. He doesn’t do anything as public as before, but...smaller deeds. Ones where he can get in and out quick, apprehending a criminal before they can even recognize him, and he’s off. The public’s opinion may differ, and it may sting, but...there have to be more like that little girl out there, more people in need, and if there are...aren’t they still worth protecting? 

He’s kept on the lookout since then, but otherwise, Peter has no choice but to stay in hiding. Being separated from everyone, cut off from his normal life...it’s begun to drive him up the wall ( _not_ literally) even more than before. He finds himself restless, desperate for the life he used to have. But it’s _gone. There’s no going back_ . Peter doesn’t have a clue where to find his aunt, or his friends, or anyone, and even if he did, he couldn’t see them. Already convinced himself he would put them in too much danger, and... _how can he know they won’t believe it like everyone else?_

Peter never should have let them know. 

Barely even noticing the way his foot taps against the ground, or the nervous fumbling of his hands, Peter gets the sudden, overwhelming urge to get _out_ . Move, go somewhere, distract himself with anything. And before he can stop himself, he’s swinging through the air again, using the tactics he’s begun to perfect for staying concealed, but going... _somewhere_. He doesn’t know. Anywhere to keep his mind from getting too hectic. 

He doesn’t know when the buildings start getting familiar either, but when he realizes, his stomach _drops_. Anxiety courses through his body like the prickle of his senses across his skin, but Peter just can’t bring himself to turn back. He goes on, weaving his way around shops and apartment complexes he feels like he hasn’t seen in ages until he’s face to face with what he knew he was approaching. 

His apartment building. 

There’s a thick swallow as Peter lands on the nearest roof, and sudden regret seeps through him. It doesn’t quite feel like home-- he hasn’t lived where it does in about eight months (or...over five years), ever since the Blip had them relocated, but...it’s where he lived before all this. For all he knows, _May_ might just be inside the window he cranes his neck to get a look at. For a moment, he envisions walking-- no, _running_ \-- right in and hugging his aunt, burying his face in her shoulder and letting everything melt away...just like how he would as a kid. _But he can’t_. 

Maybe he can still take a quick look, though. 

Impulse drives him forward, and Peter takes a running leap right towards the wall of the building, sticking to the surface before slowly climbing upwards. He avoids any windows, and repeatedly checks to make sure no one nearby will spot him, successfully making his way to the fire escape closest to one of their windows. Slow steps sideways, before he peeks inside. 

Peter is faced with their living room. Empty. 

A chill runs down his spine at the sight, and he can’t help the sudden worry that overtakes him. Logically, he knows May is usually at work around this time, but the scene is much _messier_ than usual, and Peter immediately starts to assume the worst. 

Of course she isn’t here. She must have been bombarded with attention from reporters, police, the government, anyone. Or even worse, any _villains_ , _and Peter doesn’t even know it_ . He has no way to find her, or check if she’s okay, or anything, and it’s all his _fault_. 

His breath catches in his throat, fist clenching, and Peter is gripped by sudden panic. She can’t be in danger, can’t be gone, that’s the _whole reason_ he’s stayed away-- to keep her **safe**. 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut; he has to calm down. 

_Light from the television stretches across the darkened room, reflecting off his aunt’s face as she repeatedly presses the remote, switching the channel until it lands on something the two of them could watch. “Hey, Star Wars, you up for this?”_

_Peter, sat next to her on the couch, nods his head with a slight smile. “You know I’m always gonna say yes to Star Wars, May.”_

_“Just making sure! You’ve got way too many surprises up your sleeve lately.”_

_He responds with an amused exhale, gaze trained on the movie (Empire Strikes Back-- huh, the one he referenced at the airport), but his mind wandering elsewhere. Things have been...different since May found out about his identity. The entire conversation had been too chaotic for him to even recall, with May freaking out that led to Peter freaking out, and the_ **_both_ ** _of them barely even getting anywhere for awhile. But Peter ended up explaining and they set...ground rules. A curfew to follow, a promise to tell her when he’s going out and if he’s in any trouble, which Peter...tries to follow the best he can. Thankfully, May has been more understanding than he ever could have hoped for._

_But still, he’s...worried._

_After all, he didn’t tell her for a reason._

_Things are mostly quiet as the movie plays out, but from the glances Peter can tell he’s receiving...May knows something is up. He wishes she wasn’t able to read him that well, because the last thing he wants to do is worry her, but by now, he’s learned it isn’t easy to hide stuff from his aunt._

_“Are you alright, Peter?” She asks. “You know you can talk to me, right.”_

_He bites the inside of his cheek, nodding. “Yeah-- yeah, I’m fine, I’m...good.”_

_She doesn’t buy it. “Alright, c’mon, lay down, right here-” A pat against her lap, and she looks at him expectantly. “I don’t wanna hear anything about being ‘too old’ either.”_

_Well, he can’t argue with that. Peter laughs a bit, before shrugging his shoulders and repositioning himself on the couch, curling up and resting his head on his aunt's lap. He faces the TV, still, but he can almost guess the look on her face as he feels her fingers begin to gently thread through his curls. A warm feeling courses through him, and careful touch starts to calm him._

_“You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?” May asks again with a tilt of her head, looking down at him. Still, Peter hesitates-- a part of him wants to lay here, focused on the steady caress until he drifts off (a chance he hardly gets anymore, with how busy he always is), but...he finally gives in._

_“I didn’t worry you too much, did I? You know, with the whole...um-- Spider-Man, thing.” His voice comes out quiet, and he pulls his knees in, as if making himself even smaller._

_She doesn’t answer immediately, pausing before her response (which makes Peter’s nerves spike slightly). “‘Course I was worried, Peter. I’m gonna worry about you no matter what. But not too much, not at all.”_

_“But...I didn’t_ **_want_ ** _to make you worried. I mean-- so much already happened, and you’ve got work and...other stuff, and I just...I didn’t wanna make it worse, but now you_ **_know_ ** _and--”_

_“Hey, it’s okay. You haven’t made anything worse, alright? You know, I was more worried about you when I could tell something was up. You know I could tell you were sneaking out. Sure it was...a shock, but you don’t have to feel bad about this. Not at all. I’m proud of you, Peter.”_

_The words are comforting, and with them, Peter’s persistent anxieties seem to fade away, even if just for the moment. It’s been a long time since they’ve done something like this-- it feels...safe. He remembers how scared he had been during his fight with the Vulture, the terrifying feeling of the rubble crumbled on top of him...as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he is just a kid. Maybe this is what he needs. “Thanks, really. I-- would’ve told you, but, you know, and I...didn’t wanna put you in danger, either.”_

_“Don’t worry, I can handle a bit of danger. We’re gonna be just fine.”_

_And for awhile, Peter believes it._

Breathing slows as the seconds pass, the memory fading, and Peter opens his eyes to...exactly what he saw before. The window before him as he stands on the fire escape, looking into the darkened, empty room. He tries to picture May in his head, next to him the same way she used to be, and...his heart doesn’t beat so fast in his chest, he feels steadier. But not much _better_. 

_It was supposed to be fine, but he ended up putting her in danger, anyways. Got himself exposed and framed, and now she can’t even stay home. He doesn’t think he ever deserved that reassurance_. 

He can’t stay here. For all Peter knows, he’s already stood here all too long, exposed for anyone to spot him. One last look inside, and his heart aches in his chest-- _he really hopes she’s okay._ He checks his surroundings, and he’s off yet again, moving slower this time, but...hidden. 

Unsure where to go again, he takes the closest route. Near sidewalks and streets he would have no problem walking along before all this, now sneaking behind structures and peering outwards to make sure the coast is clear. Thoughts that he can’t quite shake buzz through his head, and Peter knows he should find somewhere to relax for awhile-- another abandoned building where he can get some sleep, but a desperate _need_ still overwhelms him, and he starts to take turns towards yet _another_ familiar place.

He’s taken this way before-- prior to...well, his vacation, but nerves bubble up more inside of him with each step or swing. Peter doesn’t let himself think too hard, either, just keeps moving until he reaches another familiar set of buildings. This time, he attaches himself to the back of one, climbing up quick and crouching once he reaches the rooftop, scanning the area to make sure no one is watching and subtly making his way over to the apartments _right next_ to him. 

A quick leap off the roof, and he lands on another fire escape. 

Not quite pouring all his attention into being quiet (with the anxiety that continues to creep up on him), it rattles slightly with the impact, causing Peter to immediately press himself against the wall, and hide from anyone who might try and look out their windows. Luckily, that doesn’t happen, and Peter isn’t...quite close enough to the window he wants to see yet. After waiting a few moments, he inches up the steps, breath catching yet again the moment he sees a glimpse inside a room he’s been in before-- not too long ago, even. 

_MJ’s room_. 

Is this weird? This definitely seems weird. In any other situation, he’s pretty sure peering through anyone’s window that isn’t his own is _way too strange_ , but...he only needs a glimpse. A quick look inside just to see if...maybe, she’s _okay_ . He knows he has to be extra careful with this one, considering her _observance--_ if she spots him, he’s done for. Peter has no idea how she might react (Will she call him an idiot and tell him how dumb all of this is? Or will she yell at him? Hate him for running away, for what the world thinks he did?), but no matter what, he can’t afford it. He can’t be around _anyone_. 

He knows the layout of her room; her bed pushed close against the window with her door on the other side, but when he finally gets close enough to see through the glass, his heart almost _leaps_ out his chest the second he sees it. 

Dark curls poking out the side of the wall, right next to the window. 

There’s a quiet gasp, before Peter immediately spins around to press his back against the wall. His legs suddenly feel wobbly, like jelly, and he slides down into a sitting position against the fire escape, pulling his knees to his chest. His face is _pale_ , heart racing as he glances towards the window again-- _he didn’t expect her to be right...there!_ Actually, he has no clue what he expected, or what his plan was, but... _MJ is here_ . She’s sat in her room, on her bed, probably against the wall where her hair can peek out through the glass. Peter can almost imagine a book in hand, one she would either go into extensive detail about or simply show him the cover of because she’s so invested, or a sketchbook with sleeping visuals of himself, Ned’s face scrunched up in laughter, a black dahlia. She isn’t being tracked down, or forced into hiding, or hurt, she’s...alive, okay. Peter feels sick and relieved, _and doesn’t understand how he feels both at the same time_. 

He just wishes he could talk to her again...just one more time. 

_Peter jolts awake, a scream on the tip of his tongue as he fumbles with the bedsheets. His room is dark, along with the sky outside-- nighttime, or...very early morning, according to the clock at his bedside. But he doesn’t quite process it, not when he can barely breathe, when the nightmare is still clear in his head and he doesn’t know how to shake it away. It’s not a new situation, not by a long shot, but with his return from Europe just a few days ago, he’s begun to slip. Backtrack on any improvement (which...wasn’t much) made in eight months. When his eyes close, all he sees is green smoke, bullets from killer drones whizzing past him, Mysterio’s face. The Eiffel tower-- MJ falling, MJ being choked and held up and_ **_dropped_ ** _into the abyss. She fell, she fell and Peter couldn’t save her, and she’d die. It wasn’t real, he tries to tell himself, but he doesn’t believe it. He can’t tell, he can’t be sure. And with the image so clear, he reaches out for his phone, shaking fingers quickly unlocking it, opening up his contacts, and pressing the ‘call’ button right next to MJ’s name._

_He nearly drops the phone, but manages to hold it up to his ear despite the way his arm trembles. “Pick up, pick up, please-- please pick up-” Peter mumbles in between harsh breaths._

_Finally, she answers._

_“Peter? Don’t tell me you set the wrong time again, unless you meant to wake me up at three in the m-”_

_“MJ-” He breathes out,_ **_relieved_ ** _with her answer, but panic still laced through his voice. “You’re okay-- you’re...I thought-- for a second, he was here and you were-- I’m sorry, I-- I had to make sure-”_

 _“Woah,_ **_woah_ ** _, uh-- slow down. Peter?” Concern from the other side is obvious, but there’s hesitation, as if she doesn’t know how to handle the situation. “Um-- hey,_ **_breathe_ ** _first. Breathe, then explain. ‘Course I’m okay, dork.”_

_She has a point. Peter just wanted to make sure she was alive, make sure what he saw...wasn’t real. But even as he speaks to her on the phone, the anxious feeling still lingers, and he can’t quite breathe right. Beck could replicate this-- he could replicate everything. He has to know. “Sorry, sorry, I-” His breath hitches in his throat again. “Look-- can I...can I swing over? I know it’s late, and-- and you can say no, if you don’t want me to, I just-- I’ll explain when I get there, I swear, but-”_

_“Yes. You...can come over, yeah. I’ll open my window.”_

_Peter lets out a relieved sign. “Thanks-- thank you, I’ll-- um...I’ll be there soon-” He hangs up the call before she can question him further, nerves only growing as he realizes what he just asked. He’s still panicked, she’ll see him like this, but...he has to know for sure that she’s okay. So he grabs his suit, changes into it quick and swings right out the window. He wastes no time getting to her apartment, stomach flipping the moment he sees her looking out the window expectantly. His land on the fire escape is far from graceful, nearly tripping before he steadies himself against the railing, and he finds himself face to face with her._

_“Um-- ...hi.”_

_“Hey. You-- ...you wanna come in?”_

_He nods. “Yeah-- that’s...good idea. Um-” Eyeing the window, Peter waits for her to move._

_MJ takes a moment to realize, eyes going wider once she does, before nonchalantly moving to the side to allow him room. Before he knows it, Peter has climbed inside, and he’s sat on her bed. He pulls off his mask, revealing his paler than usual face, knit brows as he looks at her with a tangible sense of fear._

_“Woah, you look like a wreck,” She blurts out-- she’s right, and that’s what Peter likes about her. She’s blunt, but...a good friend too. Or...more, they haven’t gotten a chance to...talk specifics just yet. Except for the date coming up. “Sorry...what’s wrong?”_

_He does owe her an explanation. “I-- um…” Oh geez, how does he put this? His breathing is still irregular, still half convinced none of this is real, and it’s...pretty obvious. “Okay, this-- this is gonna sound really stupid when I say it, but I-- I had this nightmare about what happened in Europe, and it’s fine, I can-- I can handle those, but I thought he...um-- Mysterio...in his illusions, he...he hurt you, and I had to make sure-- ...I had to be sure it wasn’t...um-- real-”_

_Silence hangs in the air as Peter struggles through his words, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Of course it wasn’t real. Beck is gone, and it was just another dream. All he managed to do was wake her up and make himself look dumb in front of her, just because he needed to-_

_She slowly takes his hand. His thoughts stop._

_It’s as if his brain short circuits for a moment, and he can’t focus on anything besides the feeling of MJ’s hand in his. It isn’t the first time. They held hands in the airport, letting them brush against each other before finally bridging the gap, and on the plane ride home when they dozed off in the middle of a movie. But this is still...new, nothing either of them know how to navigate._

_Yet, it helps._

_“It wasn’t,” She insists, a new...calming tone to her voice. Peter knows it’s hard for her to open up, and they still have to work through the awkwardness, but...it’s reassuring. “He’s gone, I’m fine, and he’s not gonna do anything else to any of us.”_

_He takes a deep breath, keeps focusing on their hands clasped together-- a projection couldn’t do that. She’s here, present, real. She seems to pick up on it too, because her thumb starts to brush against his knuckles, and Peter starts to...relax._

_“You...don’t mind?”_

_The corner of her lips tugs upwards, just a little bit. “You’re gonna have to be more specific with that one.”_

_“All of this. Me...being Spider-Man, and...everything.” Everything that comes with it, he means. “Stuff like this, and...you could..._ **_really_ ** _be in danger like that again, another day.”_

_“Don’t tell me you think I’ll be the cliché superhero’s damsel-”_

_Peter’s mouth falls open. “No, no, I didn’t--”_

_“Hey, I know. I’m messing with you. Uh...bad timing. But...I can...defend myself. And everything else...you know I already knew, right? And I kept the mace.”_

_Of course she did. Peter manages a small smile, nodding. “Right-- yeah...do you mind if I-- um...stay here, for a little bit?”_

_She shakes her head. He doesn’t know when he ends up with his head on her shoulder and her arm around him but...it’s nice._

\---

Everything since then has been sort of a blur. He left the fire escape almost immediately, ignoring the urge to simply put an end to all this and finally talk to someone again, and swinging away where she couldn’t see him. From then on, Peter went back to his normal schedule...well, sort of schedule. A rinse and repeat pattern of evading authority, finding as much food and as many places to get fleeting hours of sleep as he can, and hiding himself from...everyone. 

Any good news? Well, the gunshot wound has healed okay. 

The rest? Not so much. 

It’s taken even more of a toll on him than before. Exhaustion is constant, and more often than not, Peter finds himself passing out in places where he’s _lucky_ to never be found by anyone (once he fell right into a dumpster and just kind of laid there for awhile-- would have been comfy if it weren’t for the smell). And for what feels like the hundredth time in weeks, he questions when all of this is going to stop. When things will finally go back to normal. When he doesn’t have to watch his back, or stay isolated, or feel the brunt of the public’s hatred. 

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? _He won’t get that chance_. Beck got his last laugh, and Peter’s life will never be the same again. 

It’s all his fault, he knows it. He just wishes he never put as many people in danger as he already has. 

The past night hasn’t been so bad, though. He’s had worse nights for sure, and at least he managed to find another abandoned building to rest for a little while. Not that he managed to get much sleep (he’s lucky to achieve a few consistent hours most of the time), but it’s way better than running through the streets. 

He stands outside now. Still hidden, since despite the single building’s abandonment, the city stays active around him, and everything else that _isn’t_ the construction site he took refuge in is...very much open. Peter knows he should keep on moving, but the more his energy depletes, the more he finds himself wanting to...give in. Sit down and let himself rest until it inevitably backfires. 

But he can’t-- _Peter isn’t one to give up easily_. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, because barely a moment later, his senses begin to _blare_. 

The lenses of his mask widen, and Peter ducks, swiftly avoiding a sudden punch that comes from his right. His stomach flips with nerves, and he finds himself stumbling to the side (not as put together as usual, but he’s had it rough), faced with not one thug, but a whole _group_ of them. _Which...would be a piece of cake, if not for his current state_. 

" _Heyyy_ guys, can we-- talk about this, or-” He chokes out, voice raspy, lacking his usual liveliness. Peter can fight back, he’s done it countless times, but as they manage to circle around him, he quickly realizes there isn’t exactly an escape route when running into the open isn’t an option. And as if in unison, they all start to charge. 

Peter avoids them at first, following his senses that allow him to dodge attempted punches and kicks, blocking others. He grits his teeth, ignoring the way unbearable pain shoots through his body, and zeroes in on one of them, landing a solid punch against his cheek and sending him backwards. A quick web to attach his hand to a wall, and Peter briefly celebrates, _but not for long._

With so many of them, senses warning him from every direction, another punch hits him this time, _right in the face_ . Peter stumbles backwards after the impact, and in his stupor, a different guy grabs Peter by his collar, his attack hitting him in the nose. _Sick crack_ , and blood starts to pour down Peter’s face, a metallic taste in his mouth while a numb tingling spreads through his face. 

“Okay-- _that_ was rude.” Peter retaliates immediately, kicking the criminal’s chest and sending him backwards, which...doesn’t end up helping all that much, because once his grip loosens, _Peter falls to the ground_ . Which leaves him subject to more attacks from every side. _Great_. He rolls to the side, but one of the thugs kicks him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air as the others target any vulnerable points-- yeah, this is gonna leave some bruises. Amidst the chaos, one of his web-shooters is knocked off his wrist, and Peter...he's more than overwhelmed. “What’s-- your-- problem-” He chokes out, quickly taking the first opportunity he sees to push himself back to his feet. 

“I mean, I know a lot of people hate me, but this just seems excessi-” His words cut off. 

_There’s a sudden prick in his neck._

Almost instantly, Peter starts to feel woozy. Everything grows blurrier as each second passes, and after getting knocked to the ground again...he can’t get up. He tries, but his limbs feel heavy, and unexpected exhaustion pulls at him. His head hits the concrete, and despite pouring all his strength into staying awake, black spots begin to dot his vision, and Peter feels himself beginning to _slip_. There’s someone else walking towards him. He isn’t being attacked anymore, but he’s losing consciousness. 

_Get up! Come on, Peter! Come on, Spider-Man!_

Peter sees a crooked smile, staring right down at him, and blacks out. 


End file.
